


13 Promises

by Queerasil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Codependency, Coma, Dreams, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mind Palace, PTSD, Post The Great Game, Romance, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic, injuries, slow-build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerasil/pseuds/Queerasil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thirteen promises they kept and the one they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "It'll be okay, Sherlock. I promise."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Heart In The Whole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/301718) by [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/pseuds/verityburns). 



> This is inspired by ''The Heart In the Whole', written by the wonderful vertityburns. 
> 
> John's thoughts are in italics.  
> Sherlock's thoughts are in bold.
> 
> Shameless tumblr self-promotion: http://queerasilwrites.tumblr.com
> 
> Please enjoy!

**After the events at the pool, Sherlock is shot and John starts to experience his PTSD again. The only thing that's seems to help placate the nightmares is platonic bed-sharing. Also, couples therapy, metaphors, symbolism, case fic, mind palaces, major character death, and sex. Because yeah.**

**Canon divergence, obviously.**

…

1

Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes trained on the psychopath before him. _Any second now,_ John thought, _he's going to come up with something brilliant and get us out of here._

Sherlock stayed silent, only taking a few careful steps forward. Suddenly, his expression lightened, and the tension seemed to dissolve away from his body. "Well, then." _Sherlock, Sherlock, what are you doing?_ Sherlock lowered the gun to the ground, away from the psychopath and the bomb. _No, no, Sherlock! Point it back! Point it_ – "As they say: 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

John buckled against the cubicle, his legs barely able to support the suddenly enormous weight of his body. _What are you doing, Sherlock? God, what are you doing?_

Moriarty smiled. "I wasn't offering," he said in a mocking tone. "But I suppose… if you are."

The Consulting Detective and the Consulting Criminal took a few steps closer to each other, eyes locked, posture cautious yet relaxed. John fixed his stare on Sherlock, waiting for a sign – a wink, a gesture, a word - some kind of signal that would indicate he was joking.

John saw nothing. Only the cool, controlled, demeanor of a psychopath he used to call his friend.

John's throat constricted as he cried out, "Sherlock…" It was a plead; a pathetic, pitiful, barely audible whisper. _He's making this up. He's just playing Moriarty's sick game. He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do this to me._

Sherlock smirked, his eyes still fixed on the criminal. "You should've taken the Yarders' advice, John." John stared at Sherlock's face, looking for anything that might prove his flatmate wasn't the monster everyone thought him to be.

John couldn't believe it – wouldn't believe it – not even if Sherlock shot him in the face or ripped out his heart.

Jim licked his lips, looking Sherlock up and down with a wicked grin. "What makes you think I _want_ you?"

"Jim," Sherlock responded. His voice was joking and calm - like this was some sick, everyday occurrence between the two enemies. _Not, not enemies_ , John corrected. _Friends_. Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "You know me. I. Am. You."

John's thoughts were a constant, panicked stream of pleas. His throat clenched, and he felt like he was being choked, and as the bile rose in his throat, he was sure he'd be sick. _No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Maybe he's just buying us time. Yes. Yes, that must be it. Maybe he's just –_

Sherlock casually tossed the gun into the pool, just as Moriarty had done with the flashdrive. Hands in his pockets, Sherlock strode forward towards the bomb and the criminal. Instantly, every single red dot moved to Sherlock's forehead; he didn't seem worried. "Let's make a deal; we can play a bigger game than this… We could have so much more fun together."

 _He's – he's – he's – he's –_ John kept searching for something; there had to be something. With Sherlock, there was always something. _Some clue, some piece of evidence everyone else missed, something, something –_

Sherlock reached forward to shake Moriarty's hand. The criminal took it carefully in his own and they shook. _Dammit, Sherlock. Throw him in the pool or shoot him – do something!_

Sherlock stepped back and finally looked at John. On his face was a look of disgust and pity as he surveyed his flatmate. "If only you'd have been more interesting. Maybe, just _maybe_ , I would've kept you."

Suddenly filled with an incredible blend of bravery, anger, and fear – John stood up to face the man. He meant his voice to be strong, but it came out pleading. "You can't do this Sherlock… You – you _can't_ …"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "John…"

In the next second: Sherlock grabbed John's by the arm and threw him headfirst into the pool, safely away from the bomb; three shots fired: the first grazed Sherlock's neck; the second hit him in the left shoulder; the third detonated the bomb.

John heard the bomb go off underwater; it made an incredibly loud sound, penetrating every inch of John's body and echoing for miles around. The water became warm as a violent cloud of fire erupted above the pool. Bits of rubble crashes into the water, falling to the bottom as they sunk. Chaos raged above the water, but John remained safe at the bottom of the pool.

John came up gasping. The pool around him was in entropy: the changing cubicles blown to bits, two walls destroyed, the ceiling nearly ready to cave in – and in the middle of it all, Sherlock Holmes, lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood.

"Oh, god," John gasped as he heaved himself up onto the concrete. He crawled towards his friend, who was splayed among the fire, and the rubble, and the ash. Mentally, he began to assess his friend's wounds. _Few bruises, scrapes, and cuts – but nothing unmanageable; second degree burns along the his left leg; gunshot wound just above the heart. Prognosis: …_

John shook his head to clear the terrible thought away. _He'll live. He'll live. He'll live, idiot,_ John thought as he began applying pressure to the wound. With his other hand, he gently slapped Sherlock on face to wake him up. "Sherlock? Sherlock, mate? Can you open your eyes for me?"

Sherlock groaned. John thought it was good enough. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded faintly and John sighed. "It'll be okay, Sherlock. I promise." Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again as he slipped into unconsciousness.

John could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. "Hold on, Sherlock. Hold on. Come on, for me."

...

**Note: Expect more chapters!**


	2. "I promise you'll wake up."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thought it was terrifying that his flatmate could be reduced to this, this barely living husk of the man who John once saw _lick_ a cactus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth time this has been deleted... Weird. Fourth time's the charm! 
> 
> Enjoy!

...

For once in his life, John was at a complete loss at what to do.

Sherlock was being taken care of the best doctors (not John) in the country; Mycroft had ensured that. He was hooked up to every machine, unnecessary and necessary, that the doctors could think of. His pain was managed by a series of drugs; he spent most of his day sleeping, anyway. He was being kept alive by a series of pills and wires and tubes and computers, and John hated it. He hated the artifice of it; the complete un-Sherlockness of it. John knew that if Sherlock was awake, he probably would've hated it too.

In the dim light of their posh hospital room, Sherlock looked dead. His skin was pale, smooth, like polished marble; his body limp and unmoving – his chest didn't even rise or fall as he breathed. The only way you could tell he was alive was by the heart monitor barely beeping beside him. John thought it was terrifying that his flatmate could be reduced to this, this barely living husk of the man who John once saw _lick_ a cactus.

Four-days _. Four-days_ Sherlock had been like this. Four long, nearly-interminable days that in passing felt like years. It was hell, or purgatory, or some twisted combination of both. Some awful place or state that existed only to torture the living and impede the dead.

Or, as Sherlock would have so eloquently put it: **Boring**.

There was a knock on the door. John braced himself, expecting another doctor. "Come in," he said stiffly, because he couldn't just tell a doctor to _piss off_.

The door opened; it was Greg, holding a box of pastries and a cup of coffee with an obligatory smile on his face. "Thought you might like something."

"Thanks." John took the food and ate gratefully. Strawberry tarts and black coffee, ambrosia compared to the protein sludge they fed Sherlock. John only ate half of his pastry, saving the rest for later (just in case Sherlock wanted some).

"How you doing?" Greg asked, knowing perfectly well how John was doing. Still, John appreciated the sentiment.

"I'm holding up." _Am I?_ John thought, looking back at Sherlock. _No, I'm not. But I have to be. I'm not the one who almost bloody died._

Greg sat back, a minor amount of tension the carried dissolving. "You saved his life, you know."

John sighed, nodding. "I know. I wasn't the only one. There were other doctors, and nurses, and paramedics, and the bloody assassin who couldn't shoot strai –"

_What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?_

"John?" Greg's eyebrows crinkled in concern. "You alright?"

_It tells you he is not really trying._

"Shit," John mumbled, the full weight of the realization hitting him. _They didn't want to kill Sherlock. Why would they, when they can burn the heart out of him?_

John looked back at Sherlock nervously. This wouldn't be good enough for Moriarty; Moriarty would want something more… devastating.

Greg waved a hand in front of John's face. "Hello? Everything alright?"

John didn't even have the strength to lie. This wasn't over, not yet; maybe it would never be. Not as long as Sherlock still was alive.

Greg frowned. "We're getting a protection detail for you both. Should keep 'em at bay for a while."

 _A while,_ John thought mockingly. Moriarty would be around for longer than a while. Then again, Greg was just trying to help. It's not his fault Sherlock had attracted the attention of a bloody madman. "Thanks, Greg." John nodded and sipped his coffee. J

John looked over at his flatmate with a sad smile. _Come on, Sherlock. Come on._

It was only later, after Greg left, that John started to get truly worried.

He took Sherlock's limp hand in his own. It was still warm (heart still beating, blood still pumping – alive). Now reassured Sherlock wasn't dead, John took a deep breath.

"I feel like I'm in a room alone," John announced suddenly. A new wave of sentiment threatened to overwhelm him. He sniffed back tears and continues. "Sherlock, you have… a way of… occupying space that is quite…" _Lovely? Odd? Strange? Perfect? Amazing? Wonderful?_ "Extraordinary." _Good word choice. Better than 'abnormal'; more interesting than 'strange'_. "And… I promise you'll wake up. I swear."

Gently, John leaned down and kissed his flatmate's hand, sealing the promise.

...

**Note: Aw! Heartbreaking and adorable at the same time! Wonderful!**


	3. Katabasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Katabasis: Descent into the underworld the hero makes.**

**First person present tense Sherlock's POV for most of this chapter.**

**This chapter is from my other story, entitled 'Breathe', which you can read on ff.**

**Please enjoy!**

...

One, half-breath: deep, ragged, rough – a gasp. Another: shallow, nearly a moan; not enough to acquire an adequate amount of oxygen. Come on, John. Breathe.

Wind whistles outside; slight beating on the walls: rain storm. Crackle of thunder… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 – 6 miles away. Weather forecast: thunder storm over London. We're six miles from London.

Good. It's a start. What else?

Me: Sharp pain in the third rib, slight throbbing of the head, dizziness. Blindfolded - not blind. Good. Conclusion: concussion, broken rib. Not as bad off as John, then.

A third: faint, barely there. John won't last much longer. His brain, slowly dying; starved of oxygen; useless _; broken; if he lives: extensive brain damage. If he dies -_

Breathe. _Breathe_ , John.

Dying is hard enough, but listening to this is something entirely different.

Door opens slowly: indicating an attempt at stealth; not very subtle, considering we've been kidnapped; squeaky hinges; disused, barely working, rusted. Conclusion: old house, abandoned, alone. Chance we'll be found: minimal.

Best make the best of it then.

Crash: outside, much too loud to be a person; so, a tree. Fallen tree, during a storm, locked in a darkened room. This is beginning to sound like one of those trashy mystery novels John loves so much.

John.

Breathe, John.

Slow footsteps; heavy shoes. Not John. Kidnapper: Male, then; attempting to be careful. Stopped, approximately ten-feet away. Why? He knows I heard him. Maybe I can –

No. Of course… He wants John.

Fourth breath; much too slow. He'll need to keep John alive, that much is sure. He can't - won't let him die. He knows I won't cooperate.

_Breathe_ , John.

John grunts. Not exactly what I'm looking for; I'll settle for anything. He must be picking John up now… If only I could see.

Foot slaps against the floor; John slips or struggles. Knowing John, balance of probability is for struggle.

Another groan from John. Every groan, every breath, every grunt means he's alive.

John's sneakers rub along the floor. Tile floor, then. Clean tile, judging by the squeak. We can test John's shoes later for particulates to test the residue.

If there is a later.

Another groan: John must be struggling. Good for him. If he can –

The sound of shattering glass? Broken window? No. No windows in here; not practical. Glass. Glass. Glass. _Glass. Glass. Gla -_

Of course. _A phone_. A shattered phone. Brilliant.

Phone's broke, now what? Storm outside's rough; power's probably out. He's stuck here. He's stuck here with us.

Oh, this is wonderful.

Breathe, _John_. Please. I'll get us out of here.

Door slams. John's gone. Kidnapper's gone. Time to get started, then.

Hands: bound behind back; tied together with rope – tight, tiny chaffing fibers, rough – cheap nylon; knot: boy-scout, over-hand: kidnapper's left handed. Feet not tied; bad planning. Bad planning by a cheap kidnapper who didn't bother to check the weather?

Fascinating.

Possible suspects:

No connection to Moriarty. He would at least put more effort into this.

Possibly those gangsters I pissed off last week. Likely not; they would've killed us instantly.

Too many enemies to decide; must narrow possibilities.

Kidnapper:

Male, cheap, unprepared, left-handed, former boy-scout, bad planner, clumsy, possibly –

Anderson.

_Anderson_.

… Why?

_Why_?

Why?

Motives:

Revenge – Possibly my fault; constant mocking

Jealousy

Other: _Unlikely_. This is personal.

_John_.

No – focus. Anderson, Anderson, Anderson… Why Anderson?

Why not Anderson? Pretending to be an idiot; prefect disguise. I never suspected a thing. Oh, I've been so –

They'll be time to that later. Now I need to save John.

Why now? Why kidnap us _now_? It doesn't make any sense; things have never been better at the Yard. I've solved ten-cases in the last month. I haven't even been that bad.

Why John? John and Anderson go to pubs together; John and Anderson talk at crime scenes; John and Anderson talk about –

About me. They talk about me. My fault. God. John said something, or Anderson said something, and now –

_Focus_. The last case we worked for the Yard…

Crime scene: Church: bright, colorful; ornate stained glass windows splattered with blood; body: arms and legs flayed; bled to death: slow, painful, killed in the church; time-consuming; resting on the alter in a passive position; the Latin word for 'peace' written on her forehead in blood; communion wafer in her mouth and her stomach full of sacramental wine.

John and I arrived to the scene arguing about water bottles; _what if we never argue_ –

_Breathe_. Get back to the case.

Victim: Linda Tailor, female, 27, brunet, nine-stones, 68 inches, model, religious but not devout, promiscuous, three cats, drove a stick shift, had two phones; keeping a secret.

What's your secret, Linda. What were you hiding? Were you a serial killer too? Or were –

No; you were innocent. The only thing you were guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Did Anderson kill you? _No_. Anderson's a killer, but not you. This isn't about you…

Maybe your killer's a rival, Linda. Maybe, Linda's killer and Anderson are rival serial killers?

Brilliant; genius; fantastic. Rival serial-killers, oh _wonderful_! It's a petty feud!

So, you have a rival, but who? Is that what he wants me to find out? Is this Anderson's way of hiring me for a case?

_Solve the case; you get John back. Solve the case, Sherlock. Solve the case._

Breathe, John. I'll get you back. _Breathe_.

We need to go back to the start:

Linda gets home from a long night of clubbing; there's something strange; something off about her house… Maybe she notices something; maybe she feels something's wrong, but either way, she texts a blocked, anonymous number: **Can u come by? I'm nervous. ;/**

Oh, Linda, you flirt you.

But who does she text? The number was blocked when the Yard tried it; obviously it wasn't when she did. Someone took her phone and change the number; she had two phones, so how did the killer know which is which? And why two phones? What was she hiding?

We need to go back further:

Murders similar to Linda's? None. Not a first kill; too well planned. So serial killer. Possibly a serial killer who uses religious motifs?

She was flayed. Flayed alive. Flaying… ( _skinning; the removal of skin from the body_.) Used to punish traitors in Medieval Europe; Greek mythology, Marsyas the satyr; Yahu-Bindi by the Assyrians; the Aztecs flayed victims of ritual human sacrifices.

Human. Sacrifice.

_Of course_.

...


	4. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still breathing, then. _Good_. Keep doing that; breathing isn't boring anymore.

Sacrifice: John, the pool, the bomb, 'Sherlock, run!', 'If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up' –

More specific, Sherlock.

Human Sacrifice: act of killing on or more human beings, usually as an offering; practiced by: Aztecs, Celts, Etruscans, Minoans, Gauls, Romans; closely related practices: headhunting, cannibalism –

Cannibalism!

The second to last text Linda sent from her phone: **Eat me.**

John laughed; thought it was a joke; it wasn't. Cannibals and sacrifices and serial killers, oh my!

Cannibalism: Hannibal Lecter; Clarence house, kidneys and card tricks; the act of humans consuming the flesh of another human.

Linda had a communion wafer in her mouth and sacramental wine in her stomach. The blood and body of Christ… Wow. Symbolism, much.

Linda was a human sacrifice.

But what has this got to do with Anderson?

Anderson: no religion; agnostic or atheist. So Anderson isn't religious, but his rival is. That narrows the field considerably.

Fascinating.

The door opens; one set of footsteps: slow, staggering, possibly injured; definitely John's.

Still breathing, then. _Good_. Keep doing that; breathing isn't boring anymore.

John's hand on my shoulder; he whispers in my ear, "Sherlock."

Still blind and gagged; able to cry out a muffled, "John!"

"It's okay," John doesn't sound very okay. Voice: low, barely a whisper, panting, hoarse - still breathing. John sounds exhausted. "Anderson wants to know if you've figured it out yet."

I shake my head. I'm nearly there, John. Just give me another few minutes; I'll get us out. I swear.

"Sherlock." John gulps; lump in his throat; nervous; scared - bit not good. "He says he'll kill me if you don't figure it out."

I really should've been expecting that. I'll figure it out, John. I - . I – I'll get us out. I promise. I swear.

"I'm not hurt, Sherlock, but he will hurt me. So just…" John trails off, his meaning plain.

I know. I know: Solve the case. I'm working on it.

Stay with me, John. Please.

John coughs sharply: harsh = coughing up blood = punctured lung = not much time left.

I can solve it, John.

John sighs. Don't sigh, John. I can solve this.

Back to Linda:

Possible suspects:

Peter – creepy neighbor; obsessed with fish and chips; not religious; overweight; alone; not serial killer material.

Glenda – Linda's mother; overprotective; self-obsessed; vain; angry; out of the country at the time.

Beth – Linda's cousin; annoying; not even worth considering; obsessed with Cluedo.

None of them seem likely. That's the trouble with serial killers; they're rarely someone you know.

Well, accept for Anderson.

Must've been someone she knew; she sent them a text; she felt comfortable with them; felt _safe_ with them.

And then there's the two phones; one of the phones went missing in evidence – clumsy police work – but why did she have two phones?

Why two phones?

Maybe the other phone was someone else's? Maybe someone lost it, or someone stole it, or someone broke -

Of course.

Anderson. The other phone was Anderson's; Anderson blocked the number; he knew his rival would expose him, so he stole it back from evidence before the police could find out! But Anderson doesn't know who his rival is, so he's being blackmailed into stealing information by his rival under threat of exposure!

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Accept that's the phone that Anderson just broke.

…

John stood outside Sherlock's hospital room. _I'm much too far away,_ he thinks, unable to stop glancing in the window to make sure Sherlock was still there. He was. _Good_. He turned to Anderson. "What do you want?"

Anderson hesitated before speaking. "John, I know it isn't appropriate, but we have a case and –"

"And you want me to solve it?" John almost laughed. Almost. He would've if it was funny, but it wasn't; it was cruel. "Why would I want to solve a case at a time like this?"

"John –"

"No. Don't 'John' me. Why?"

Anderson swallowed thickly. "It might take your mind off of –"

John yelled, "I don't want my mind anywhere else." _There's only one place my mind belongs,_ he thought, _and that's with Sherlock; in that room, with Sherlock._

Anderson scratched the back of his head, sighing in defeat. Grimacing, he pulled out a manila folder from his case and handed it to John. "Just think about it," he pleaded.

John would. He would probably end up discarding the file; maybe by fire or some other fun thing. Sherlock and he could do it after…

After he woke up.

John shook his head. _I need a break. I need a nice, long break._

Silently, John opened the case folder.

_Victim: Linda Tailor. That was the last case Sherlock and I were working before –_ John stopped himself there and asked himself, _What would Sherlock do?_

The Sherlock inside his head answered, _Solve the case. Put your emotions behind you. Sentiment will only cloud your thinking._

Quietly, John walked off to the cafeteria.

…

So Anderson knew her; Anderson cared about her; Anderson cared about her enough to make her a target.

Only option: I need Anderson to solve this.

Well, I can't just ask him politely, can I?

John.

_John_.

I scream for him; kicking my legs against the ground so hard it hurts. No one answers. The room is silent accept for me. John hasn't moved; he must still be here; I can't hear him breathing –

_Breathe_ , John. Please breathe.

Kicking. Screaming. Downright groveling; I beg.

Hand on my shoulder: not John's; holds me still; voice telling me to be quiet (Anderson's). Fingers work fast to undo the gag; blindfold is left on.

I gasp, "I can solve the case. Just don't hurt John!"

"John?" Anderson's whiny voice answers. "Why would I hurt John?"

Confusion. Noticeable elevation of my heart-rate: nervous; panic. "You're not going to hurt John?"

"No! Of course not –" Anderson stammers. "John's not even here."

No. I'm here. I heard John. ( _One, half-breath: deep, ragged, rough – a gasp_.) John is here. I know it. "What?"

"No one's going to hurt you," says the serial killer. "You're alright."

"I am most definitely not alright. John is gone; I'm injured; you're a bloody serial killer."

"A serial killer!" Anderson laughs. I'm serious. "Oh my god… That must be the concussion. I'm not a serial killer."

Anderson's voice: Level; no hesitation – telling the truth then.

I sigh. What the hell is going on? "Where's John?" Breathing?

"John is fine. He just took a break." Still not lying.

"Why can't I see?"

"Um…" Anderson's voice tenses. I knew it. I knew he was lying. I knew this was all – "Sherlock… You're blind."

No. No. No. I'm not blind. I'm blindfolded. There's a difference, Anderson. I shake my head.

"Sherlock, listen to me. There was an explosion at the pool. You were badly hurt. You were shot in the shoulder, you have a concussion, burns on your leg, and of course… you were blinded." Anderson's voice: still telling the truth.

No. No. The bomb didn't go off; Moriarty changed his mind; he got the call and… and… "That's not true. That can't be."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Really. But… I don't know how to prove it to you…" Slight hesitation in his voice: possibly lying; possibly genuinely concerned; possibly thinking; possibly still a serial-killer. "I could get Lestrade."

I nod. Good. Lestrade will know exactly what to do. He will know _exactly_ what to do.

...

Lestrade isn't much help.

"He's not a serial killer, Sherlock!" Lestrade insists. His voice: angry; possibly because I almost died; sentiment; caring; _feelings_.

I don't listen.

Lestrade and Anderson leave. Good.

...

The door opens: one set of footsteps: slow, cautious, careful, quiet; definitely John's. I react instantly, reaching out to where I assume he is. I grab his shirt (soft, light yellow, thin green and red stripes, red cardigan; I remember it well; John from the pool; alive, breathing, uninjured John). "John."

I can imagine him smiling; thinking that was a gesture of sentiment. It was purely an observation. "Sherlock."

John's hand on my hand: the doctor's fingertips, lightly calloused against my own.

We say nothing. We speak in breaths; taking comfort in each other's.


	5. Comfort in Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switches like halfway to Sherlock's POV halfway through.

John stood outside Sherlock's hospital room. _I'm much too far away,_ he thinks, unable to stop glancing in the window to make sure Sherlock was still there. He was. _Good_. He turned to Anderson. "What do you want?"

Anderson hesitated before speaking. "John, I know it isn't appropriate, but we have a case and –"

"And you want me to solve it?" John almost laughed. Almost. He would've if it was funny, but it wasn't; it was cruel. "Why would I want to solve a case at a time like this?"

"John –"

"No. Don't 'John' me. Why?"

Anderson swallowed thickly. "It might take your mind off of –"

John yelled, "I don't want my mind anywhere else." _There's only one place my mind belongs,_ he thought, _and that's with Sherlock; in that room, with Sherlock._

Anderson scratched the back of his head, sighing in defeat. Grimacing, he pulled out a manila folder from his case and handed it to John. "Just think about it," he pleaded.

John would. He would probably end up discarding the file; maybe by fire or some other fun thing. Sherlock and he could do it after…

After he woke up.

John shook his head. _I need a break. I need a nice, long break._

Silently, John opened the case folder.

_Victim: Linda Tailor. That was the last case Sherlock and I were working before –_ John stopped himself there and asked himself, _What would Sherlock do?_

The Sherlock inside his head answered, _Solve the case. Put your emotions behind you. Sentiment will only cloud your thinking._

Quietly, John walked off to the cafeteria.

…

So Anderson knew her; Anderson cared about her; Anderson cared about her enough to make her a target.

Only option: I need Anderson to solve this.

Well, I can't just ask him politely, can I?

John.

_John_.

I scream for him; kicking my legs against the ground so hard it hurts. No one answers. The room is silent accept for me. John hasn't moved; he must still be here; I can't hear him breathing –

_Breathe_ , John. Please breathe.

Kicking. Screaming. Downright groveling; I beg.

Hand on my shoulder: not John's; holds me still; voice telling me to be quiet (Anderson's). Fingers work fast to undo the gag; blindfold is left on.

I gasp, "I can solve the case. Just don't hurt John!"

"John?" Anderson's whiny voice answers. "Why would I hurt John?"

Confusion. Noticeable elevation of my heart-rate: nervous; panic. "You're not going to hurt John?"

"No! Of course not –" Anderson stammers. "John's not even here."

No. I'm here. I heard John. ( _One, half-breath: deep, ragged, rough – a gasp_.) John is here. I know it. "What?"

"No one's going to hurt you," says the serial killer. "You're alright."

"I am most definitely not alright. John is gone; I'm injured; you're a bloody serial killer."

"A serial killer!" Anderson laughs. I'm serious. "Oh my god… That must be the concussion. I'm not a serial killer."

Anderson's voice: Level; no hesitation – telling the truth then.

I sigh. What the hell is going on? "Where's John?" Breathing?

"John is fine. He just took a break." Still not lying.

"Why can't I see?"

"Um…" Anderson's voice tenses. I knew it. I knew he was lying. I knew this was all – "Sherlock… You're blind."

No. No. No. I'm not blind. I'm blindfolded. There's a difference, Anderson. I shake my head.

"Sherlock, listen to me. There was an explosion at the pool. You were badly hurt. You were shot in the shoulder, you have a concussion, burns on your leg, and of course… you were blinded." Anderson's voice: still telling the truth.

No. No. The bomb didn't go off; Moriarty changed his mind; he got the call and… and… "That's not true. That can't be."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Really. But… I don't know how to prove it to you…" Slight hesitation in his voice: possibly lying; possibly genuinely concerned; possibly thinking; possibly still a serial-killer. "I could get Lestrade."

I nod. Good. Lestrade will know exactly what to do. He will know _exactly_ what to do.

Lestrade isn't much help.

"He's not a serial killer, Sherlock!" Lestrade insists. His voice: angry; possibly because I almost died; sentiment; caring; _feelings_.

I don't listen.

Lestrade and Anderson leave. Good.

The door opens: one set of footsteps: slow, cautious, careful, quiet; definitely John's. I react instantly, reaching out to where I assume he is. I grab his shirt (soft, light yellow, thin green and red stripes, red cardigan; I remember it well; John from the pool; alive, breathing, uninjured John). "John."

I can imagine him smiling; thinking that was a gesture of sentiment. It was purely an observation. "Sherlock."

John's hand on my hand: the doctor's fingertips, lightly calloused against my own.

We say nothing. We speak in breaths; taking comfort in each other's.


	6. "I promise I will never leave you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The simple fact (that both men refuse to acknowledge) was that they needed each other. Both liked to think of themselves as independent objects, but really, they were parallel: never touching, but always affecting each other. Always influencing one another, like a two binary stars; they controlled each other. It was a beautiful thing, really. A beautiful, possibly toxic and destructive, possibly positive and wonderful thing. _A mutually assured destruction_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-update today!

John processed the information in parts.

_Sherlock: Flatmate, friend, consulting detective, annoying, violin playing git._

_Is: Currently, right now, not forever, just at the moment._

_Blind: inability to see, either permanent or temporary._

_Sherlock. Is. Blind._

_It could be temporary,_ he reassured himself.

_It could not,_ the other, more logical, Sherlock-side of his brain reminded him.

The simple fact (that both men refuse to acknowledge) was that they needed each other. Both liked to think of themselves as independent objects, but really, they were parallel: never touching, but always affecting each other. Always influencing one another, like a two binary stars; they controlled each other. It was a beautiful thing, really. A beautiful, possibly toxic and destructive, possibly positive and wonderful thing. _A mutually assured destruction_.

…

Sherlock didn't make a sound. He was too busy taking in information. The steady beeping noises around him, the low count sheets below his fingers, and the smell of antiseptic that washed over the room pointed to one inevitable conclusion: He was in the hospital. Sherlock had never liked hospitals. Good thing John was there.

Sherlock was blind, but he could still _see_ John. Sherlock could picture John. Sherlock had a year of memories from their living together stored in his Mind Palace; ready for perusal at a moment's notice. But he was always collecting more: His fingers brushed against the denim of John's jeans, (a fabric he thought he would never feel again); the subtle sounds of John's constant breathing; John's warm hand, (rough callous on the knuckles, slight bruises and cuts caused by debris, nicely trimmed fingernails: careful, clean, precise, doctor); John's pulse, (slightly elevated, like Sherlock's own.)

John.

His John.

Sherlock might never see John's face again. But that was okay. They had other things. They had the sound of John's voice (low, expressive, indicative of emotions), and the feel of him (soft but rough, gentle yet protective), and all the little noises he made (sniffs, sighs, breaths, groans, moans, laughs, giggles, chuckles), and his smell (peppermint aftershave, honey). They could make do.

Everything else would change, of course. Everything else always did.

But not John. No, never John. Constant, loyal, brave John. Sherlock thought that in his life of constantly changing turmoil, John had been the one steady constant. That's what _friends_ do.

Sherlock had never had a friend before. He'd had enemies, allies, the homeless network, Victor Trevor (first flatmate, drug dealer, bad influence, fun to be around), Mike (boring, nice, set him up with John), Lestrade (detective inspector, helped with the drug thing, gave him cases), Molly (pathologist, sweet, caring, strong), Mrs. Hudson (landlady, got her husband executed, former exotic dancer), and Mycroft (brother, git, de facto ruler of basically everything), but he'd never actually had a _friend_.

John was nice. Sherlock liked John. (More than he really should have.)

Now, the real question is: Did John like Sherlock back?

John offered to sacrifice himself at the pool, shot someone for a complete stranger, stays despite Sherlock's constant horribleness, and (most importantly) certainly seems to like Sherlock.

But would he stay now? Now that Sherlock was blind? Sherlock had to know.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. Sherlock's fingers dug into the bed sheets nervously.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, caring, sweet; not full of pity, or anger, or resentment like others' were.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "Are you going to stay?"

John didn't speak. Sherlock could hear him licking his lips, perhaps getting ready to say something. "Sherlock." John suddenly held Sherlock's hand. Sherlock felt John's pulse: low, steady, constant (honesty). His voice was sincere, low, and barely a whisper. "I promise I will never leave you."

Sherlock smiled.


	7. Adaption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjustments had to be made, of course. They couldn't go galloping after criminals anymore; not without a cane and extreme safety precautions. Other than that, Sherlock didn't seem to mind being blind too much. Things were still relatively. They still got in arguments, solved cases, and remained constant at each other's' sides.

Two-weeks passed before Sherlock could stand up on his own. At first, he winced as he moved, and John had to witness as the once-graceful man lost all his grace. Gradually, with John's help, it got easier. They were able to take a step, and then two, and then three, and soon to the end of the room and back without falling. John tried to tell Sherlock how proud of him he was, but Sherlock dismissed him every time. John was still proud of him though, secretly.

…

Two more weeks passed before they went back to 221B. Mrs. Hudson frantically cleaned, organized, and generally prepared the house for their arrival; it was an effort mostly lost because – well - Sherlock couldn't see.

Adjustments had to be made, of course. They couldn't go galloping after criminals anymore; not without a cane and extreme safety precautions. Other than that, Sherlock didn't seem to mind being blind too much. Things were still relatively. They still got in arguments, solved cases, and remained constant at each other's' sides.

However, there was one case that continued to stump both of them: Linda Tailor and her ritual sacrifice. Since Anderson was definitely not a serial killer, they were basically back to square one. Still, that didn't stop them from putting all their excess energy into trying to solve the case.

…

"Tell me that last part again," Sherlock commanded.

John obliged, looking again at the gruesome picture of the victim's finger. "Um… She's very tan, except for a slightly lighter shade on her pinky finger." John had taken to describing crime scene photos to his friend in the last few weeks; it made the whole experience easier for the both of them.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. His eyes, once clear and focused, were now hazy, haunting and vacant as they stared into nothing. "How wide is the strip?"

 _What the hell kind of question is that?_ John thought. John stuck his thumb along the edge of the photograph, attempting to gage the width of the photo. He determined a grand total of nothing. He decided to guess. "Uh…About a quarter of an inch wide, I reckon."

Sherlock nodded. "Chastity ring… Oh, I don't know how I could've _missed_ that one."

John looked back at the photo and realized it was odd Sherlock had missed it. "Well, you can't catch everything."

"Actually, usually I can." Sherlock sighed, suddenly remembering that he couldn't catch anything _anymore_. He gave John a _oh that's right I'm blind_ look and continued. "Killer took her chastity ring; symbolism. They wanted to make a point she wasn't as virtuous as everyone thought, so –"

"But you said that was obvious," John interrupted, and Sherlock frowned. "You knew she was promiscuous the second you looked at her." ' _Looked': bad choice of words,_ John chastised himself. "Remember?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, of course, but obviously I was the only one who knew that. Her killer didn't know that; that's why they killed her. So, what we've established is…"

John was blank.

"Motive," Sherlock concluded. "We find whoever has her ring, and we find the killer. Simple."

John nodded. It was a reasonably good plan that possibly wouldn't end in disaster. It was sure a better idea than sitting around Baker Street doing nothing. "Ok. What do we do next?"

…

Church and Sherlock Holmes were not two things that should ever have gone together.

But there John was anyway, kneeling next to his blind flatmate in a pew.

Luckily, Sherlock had only managed to insult two members of the congregation so far. _So far,_ John reminded himself.

John took a quick look around the church. High-vaulted ceilings, magnificent stained glass windows, a glistening, freshly-polished pipe organ at the front of the room. It was beautiful. It was immaculately beautiful. John just wished that Sherlock could see it (not that he would appreciate it).

Sherlock nudged him, and John looked up. The priest had begun to talk about Linda. He talked about what a magnificent girl she was, and how pure and full of grace she was. John thought it was quite touching until, of course, Sherlock had to go and ruin it.

Sherlock leaned down and whispered into John's ear, "Just think, John. One of these people is a killer."

John looked around at all the happy people surrounding them. He just didn't think it was possible that something so terrible could've happened here. John whispered back, "So?"

"Describe them to me." Sherlock gave John's hand a reassuring touch, and John smiled in spite of himself.

"What do you want me to look for?" _Please don't say, 'A murderer, John.' As if I know what that looks like._

"Just describe them all."

"There have to be ninety people here."

Sherlock nudged him again. "Better get started, then."

John sighed and started from the front row. He got all the way to the back before Sherlock stopped him. "Go back," Sherlock demanded, nudging him again.

John's arm was really starting to get sore. "What? The family in the back? I don't know; they just kind of seem…" John trailed off.

"What?" Sherlock impatiently hissed.

"They're…" John struggled to find the right words. "Not reacting at all."

Sherlock nodded and nudged John again to continue. "They're… I don't know, it just seems odd. Everyone else looks sad or is crying, but these people are just… sitting there." John looked back at the family of four, wishing Sherlock could see. The family was emotionless, blank, seemingly unaffected by the priest's touching speech about Linda.

"We need to talk to them," Sherlock declared, and John began to fear the worst.


	8. I promise I'll never leave you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John poured the tea slowly. Sherlock leaned in close, enjoying the sound of the tea as it fell into the porcelain. Trickle by trickle, John poured every last drop. Next John poured the sugar in; every grain fell, little snow falling into a lake and dissolving below the surface. Stirring it, John took extra care to tap the spoon along the edges so it produced almost a musical melody. Sherlock was simply enchanted by the sound.

Somehow, they ended up having dinner with the strange family.

 _Ah, yes_. John remembers. _It all started when Sherlock pretended we were a gay couple and asked the odd family if we could come to dinner. Of course, they said yes, because how could they not refuse two delightful blokes like us?_

John picked at his peas awkwardly. The family of five (a mother, a father, two sisters, and the altar boy who discovered the victim), were utterly silent. It was one of the most awkward things John had ever done, and Sherlock wasn't making it any better.

"So…" the mother began. She was a short, stout woman with a messy poof of orange hair atop her skinny head. "How long have you two been together?"

Sherlock smiled his most un-Sherlocky smile and took John's hand in his own. "Two-years."

If John hadn't been too preoccupied with being upset, he would've smiled too. _You're not upset about the fake relationship,_ he told him. _You just wish it was a real one._

John looked over at Sherlock again. Sherlock seemed very content with pretending they were a couple: a fact which both delighted and alarmed John.

"Though, we've been having some trouble lately," Sherlock confessed randomly.

 _What are you doing? What is he doing?_ John wondered.

The woman smiled. "Well, if you two are needing help, I could advise you."

 _What?_ "Um…"

"She's a relationship therapist, John." Sherlock smiled, and John became properly terrified. "Can we pop by tomorrow?"

The woman told them they could, and proceeded to speak for the next twenty-minutes about **intimacy**.

John kept thinking, _My relationship with Sherlock is fine; we don't need a therapist. Wait. We're not even really in a relationship – are we? Are we? This is weird. We're fine as we are. We get on. I describe things to him and he tortures me. It's just like it always was – except it isn't – except it is. What the hell?_

…

John couldn't have been more relieved when they got back home to Baker Street. Collapsing onto the couch in an exhausted heap, he sighed. "That was awful."

"I thought it was nice." John heard the clicking of Sherlock's cane in the hallway and realized his flatmate was tumbling around the kitchen, trying to make tea.

"Oh, Sherlock." John walked into the kitchen and took the kettle from his flatmate. "I'll get that." John put some water in the kettle and set about making tea. All the while, he couldn't help noticing Sherlock was standing unusually close to him. They were only a few inches apart. "Do you need anything?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and John's breath hitched. "Yes. Tea."

John stifled a sigh. "Chamomile or Earl Grey?"

"Why not both?" Sherlock smiled and bumped into the cupboard while attempting to get some cups.

John held his hand out in front of the detective to stop him. "Sherlock, I've got it, really."

John thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock's face, but it was gone in an instant. _He just needs something to do,_ John figured. _Ah!_ John turned on the tap and put the kettle in Sherlock's hands. "Can you fill the kettle for me?"

"Of course." John guided Sherlock's hands forward and under the tap. Sherlock's hands felt smoother than usual, almost as if he'd been using something. Moisturizer, maybe? Hand cream? John wasn't sure. With the kettle filled, John took his hands of Sherlock's and let the detective put it down on the stovetop. "Good."

"Oh, please." Sherlock scoffed. Something about Sherlock was different tonight; it was almost as if he… cared.

 _No. That can't be right._ John took another look at his flatmate and made some deductions of his own. _Slight lines around the eyes: hasn't been sleeping; worried, possibly? No. Not likely. Sherlock never worries about anything. Moisturized hands? Taking extra care in appearance? Why? He can't see, so what's the – Oh. Oh. Duh. Who's been holding his hand so much lately? You, dummy John. It's all for you._

John stayed silent. Inside, his mind was a joyous riot. _SHERLOCK CARES ABOUT ME. I AM SIGNIFICANT. FINALLY._

The whistling of the kettle brought John out of his thoughts and alarmed Sherlock slightly. Unconsciously, John touched his hand again and the detective relaxed.

John poured the tea slowly. Sherlock leaned in close, enjoying the sound of the tea as it fell into the porcelain. Trickle by trickle, John poured every last drop. Next John poured the sugar in; every grain fell, little snow falling into a lake and dissolving below the surface. Stirring it, John took extra care to tap the spoon along the edges so it produced almost a musical melody. Sherlock was simply enchanted by the sound.

"Here," John handed Sherlock the cuppa gently. The cup was warm in Sherlock hands; almost hot against his fingertips. "Enjoy."

 **I most certainly will** _,_ Sherlock thought. He sipped his tea quietly, until the urge to speak overwhelmed him. "John?"

"Hmm? Yeah."

 _How to go about this?_ Sherlock considered many possibilities. In the end, they were all terrible. He decided a direct approach was probably the best. "Will you promise me something?"

"Of course." _John's voice: honest, sincere, friendly, devoted, loyal, good._

"Promise you won't leave me. Not when I need you, of course."

John smiled; it was a wasted gestured. That didn't matter though; most gestures were wasted nowadays, but he still did them anyway. "Of course. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tea-pouring sound porn. Had to pour like four cups of tea to get that right.


	9. I promise to always be loyal and true to you forever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now, I want both of you to promise to be loyal and true to each other forever."

Therapy was awkward from the moment they walked in the door.

The woman, Angela, her name apparently was, asked them to make an oath before they sat down. "Now, I want both of you to promise to be loyal and true to each other forever."

Sherlock didn't have time to pick out all the logical fallacies in that sentence. Instead, he turned to John and said in a very honest voice, "John, I promise to always be loyal and true to you _forever_."

John was surprised by the sincerity of Sherlock's voice. There wasn't a moment's hesitation before John said, "I promise as well." And he meant it. He meant it to the end of time. He hoped Sherlock meant it too.

The therapist went on and asked a lot of awkward questions that John didn't (and couldn't) have the answers for.

"How often are you two intimate?" She smiled. John tensed. Sherlock stifled a grin.

John thought about this for a bit. _Intimacy? Are Sherlock and I intimate? What does that even mean? Like, does that mean sex? Is she asking about sex? We don't have sex – not yet, John. No. Shut up. Sherlock doesn't – BACK TO THE POINT. How do I answer this? I mean, we are intimate on some level, aren't we? We touch, we spend time together, we're very close. Maybe we are –_

Before John could finish thinking, Sherlock answered. "Daily."

The therapist nodded, looking impressed. John was trying not to look confused. _Daily? Daily? Now what does that mean? Sherlock probably just_ _made that up. Probably. Probably. Maybe. Uh…_

From there, the session only got worse. The therapist, obviously trying to hide her discomfort, said, "Now, there's something very special I want you two to do." Sherlock eagerly leaned forward. John kept glancing at the door, wondering if he could make a run for it. "I want you two to role-play as each other."

_What?_ they both thought in unison. "I'm sorry?" John asked.

The therapist laughed awkwardly. "Each of you will pretend to be the other."

John had absolutely no idea what to say. Sherlock, on the other hand, smiled and said, "Thank you."

…

Sherlock and John took a shortcut home through Kensington Gardens; Sherlock seemed to like it there. He could smell the freshly cut grass and flowers, and feel the cold wind brush against his face. He could hear people laughing, children playing, and the buzzing of bees. If there was one place comparable to heaven on earth, Sherlock would've called Kensington Gardens it.

Walking arm in arm with his friend, John felt much more comfortable than he had at therapists. "Sherlock, what the hell was that about?"

"John, please." Sherlock's voice was flippant, as though he didn't understand the weirdness of what he'd just done. "It's for the case."

"What? You think she's the killer?"

Sherlock nodded and stopped suddenly. Sherlock swayed slightly, and John put his hand on his shoulder to steady him. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, before nearly falling over.

Without thinking, John put his hand around Sherlock's waist and guided him down onto a park bench. "You're okay," John reassured him.

Sherlock paled, looking embarrassed. "I'm fine. Just…" Sherlock trailed off, his meaning abundantly clear in the silence.

John nodded. John wondered what it was like for a man who relieved so heavily on his senses to be deprived of one. He said, "I know. I know. Do you want me to… Can I do anything?"

Sherlock smiled, but it was clearly just a gesture. John supposed that smiles didn't mean much to Sherlock anymore; then again, they never really had. "Just…" Sherlock took a deep breath, obviously nervous. "Describe it to me."

"What?"

"Everything."

"Oh." John looked around him. The park was beautiful; almost too beautiful to describe. He looked out at the park before him, utterly deprived of words. He supposed he would have to try - for Sherlock's sake, anyway. "It's… There's a fountain with… little bushes and weeds in it. There are rows of flowers; one row for every color of the rainbow… The sky is blue, but… there are a few clouds. The trees…" John continued to describe the scene.

Sherlock, of course, already knew what Kensington Gardens looked like. In his Mind Palace, Sherlock was sitting on the bench with John, watching the magnificent day pass by with his friend.


End file.
